I want to love you but there isn’t
time, not in the pseudo-gloaming

here in the future-life fractured
by latch-free kids, kids who race

on mutant dogs named Spike and
Love-america-style and, of course

Spike always wins. This isn’t just
another excuse it’s the contrite

melodrama I wrote for me when
I was ten so don’t quote me or trust

me to find facts. I learned to feel
from a beaten cat, I learned to dodge

a truth of poor parenting. My apocalypse
is 3 feet long and can last up to nine days,

so don’t leave it to me to find happiness or
water and things that we need. I can

find misery and opiates because that
is what I do, I have no nuclear agenda.